Until Then Becomes Now
by Aine Deande
Summary: -- Four years past, we parted. One year and one day past, we said goodbye. One year past, we met. And today we shall meet again. -- A meeting in the fog on Midsummer's Day.


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Until Then Becomes Now

By: _Aine Déande_

A/N: This little vignette unfolded as I finished the third volume in Philip Pullman's undeniably classic trilogy His Dark Materials', The Amber Spyglass. As my romantic spirit simply couldn't take the heart-wrenching ending, I decided to add a little spin of my own. 

Forgive me if I in any way do injustice to these formidable characters: I am but the crumb. However, I hope that whatever pleasure you can derive from reading this short story, and others on this site, will sustain you during the wait for The Book of Dust.

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Until Then Becomes Now

Four years past, we parted. One year and one day past, we said goodbye. One year past, we met.

And today we shall meet again.

It is Midsummer's Day, and the weather is benign. The flowers rise in full bloom from their respective habitat, the trees grow tall as ever, and the Botanic Garden makes itself ready for our meeting. It cooperates, you see, with the powers that be.

The power within Lyra and me. The Dust we control, that we set alive and flowing again, four years past. It is our friend, Dust, and so every part of every world is also part of ourselves. From dæmon to dæmon to dæmon. . . sort to speak, of course.

No offense, Kirjava.

She's shaking her head at me. She's ever shaking her head at me, reprovingly and also a tad wistfully, as though she can see just above my right shoulder something I cannot, for when I turn towards it the shadow disappears. But I always imagine it were a hand, waving at my dæmon, the hand of a girl, and I'm glad she's waving at my dæmon if I alone am not privy to see it.

Dreams of midlands impose themselves upon my vision. I have never been a dreamer, but longing makes the heart constrict and the mind open. I find I can see more clearly into the world now than I could before. . . everything. As though, with the discovery of my dæmon, I have inherited a new set of eyes, and it allows me to view what is mine better. It's a crystalline world out there, and though I might not wish to be a part of it actively, I may stand as a spectator, fade into the shadows as I have always done, and watch.

Watch, as I sit on my bench, one hand lying open, palm facing up, on the empty space next to me. I am waiting for that twist of air, that breath of wind that carries with it the scent of honey and warmth and the memory of that sun-splashed afternoon in the plain. . . when I kissed Lyra's mouth with my own and relished in every cell of my body the lingering aftertaste of the little red fruit on her tongue.

Seeing more clearly now, waiting.

And there comes the fog.

I have told you already the tide, the air current, the trees and flowers and living things of these worlds work with us. They want to help us be, be together, for as much as we can. So when the day comes, Midsummer's, and all that should be beautiful is just so, the now all-familiar mist will descend, and cover us in its cloak of mystery and concealment. 

No need to hide or fade into shadow. The world works with us. Heaven is, after all, ours.

And from the fog springs forth a voice, calling me, _Will, Will_. . . A face outlined in shadow, a body shaping, so much older now, not so old yet. Sitting down, now.

Sitting next to me, now.

So many nights spent chasing faraway fantasies in distant dreams, and I find myself chasing the lightning in the fog, that clarity inside my mind that drives me insane and gives me peace, all at once. Then I wake up drenched in my own sweat and my heart calls out this same name then, this name I call now, this name I speak only on Midsummer's Day.

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Lyra. . .

Her warmth fills my open hand and my heart goes a-flutter. _It has been _so _long. . ._

I can feel her smile, see her eyes. The mist shows what would otherwise be shapeless, and as I struggled as a child-adult to see Baruch and Balthamos, it takes no effort at all now to see in the shape of the fog my beloved.

My beloved. My only. My Lyra.

Lyra Belacqua, Lyra Silvertongue, Lyra mine, mine, mine.

She smiles into the open air and as she bends to my hand, it is almost as though I can feel her soft moist lips touching my inner wrist.

She _has _aged, and time has done nothing but add to her beauty. I look at her now, as this hole between worlds allows us time together, however feeble, however small and short it may appear to be. . . this is what I live for, every day again, to the memory of the past and the promise of the coming Midsummer's Day. 

It is my very breath, and I know it is the same for her. Her smile is soft and sweet and sad.

I let her warmth fill me, open up the gateways to my mind and soul. _Hello Lyra, my love. _

Hello Will, my beloved.

Dearheart.

And then. . . well, what is there to say?

We sat together, laughed. We told each other stories, stories of our lives, stories of our lives apart.

We gazed into each other's eyes as deep and long as the mist would allow until there was no more distinction between the one and the other.

Endearments. Enchantments. Smiles and kisses made of vapor and little light. More endearments.

Words piled upon words to fill the time, slipping fast already, through both our gripping fingers.

And as the day passed into night, and the bells chimed nine, I said goodbye again.

Her warmth left me, as did the fog, and I was left on the bench inside the Botanic Garden as night gripped the whole of London. But my heart was still full of her.

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Lyra.

I sent her name into the night as a token, a promise, a vow. She is mine always. I am hers forevermore.

And even worlds apart, we can be together this way. This way alone. . . but together no less.

Four years and one day ago we parted ways. One day of the year, our ways meet in the middle once more.

Until then becomes now again, my beloved. Until then.

_ THE END_


End file.
